


Champagne Catharsis

by TheMockingCrows



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMockingCrows/pseuds/TheMockingCrows
Summary: Sometimes you're a Seer, sometimes you're a God, but other times you're just a kid screaming obscenities at their dead mother for years of dealing with her alcoholism. Things aren't always so clear, even for a Seer of Light.
Relationships: Rose Lalonde & Rose's Mom | Beta Roxy Lalonde
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	Champagne Catharsis

Just a quick jaunt through the dream bubbles was the plan. See what one space had to offer before moving to the next if it bored her. A few hours of dalliance to pass the time. Rose had a lot of plans, a lot of thoughts to how she was going to bide her time, but they all fell through in an instant when she saw the familiar outline of her own un-tampered with home in the hazy rain of New York. 

Had it really been that long? A few years at least since she’d seen it being destroyed, the woods ablaze like candles in the eternal feeling of darkness. Mud squelched beneath her pointe shoes and water slid down her hair like cascading trails of diamonds, making the blonde a few shades darker by the time she made it inside.

It looked true to her memory, but what was truly eerie was that it smelled the same. In all her times of jumping into the bubbles, she’d never once dreamt about her own home, instead choosing to visit far away places and friends, or people she’d never met in her life before coming back to her own thoughts and wakefulness like a whale coming from the depths. She brushed her fingers through her hair to shake it, hoping it would dry faster that way while she toured her old room. Rose took a step up the freestanding stairs before pausing and turning around, looking towards the decor of her home, places she’d flopped a thousand times to while away the hours with Jaspers. The wise yet judgemental stare of the grand wizard that dominated the living room met her purple eyes, and as the lightning flashed outside she had to tear her eyes away lest she recall the hundreds upon hundreds of thoughts that statue had brought to her mind over the years.

How many stories had there been, Rose? How many times had you lost yourself in fantasy to escape everything, before you lost everything for real? How much time did you waste taking things for granted before they were gone?

No. A stupid line of thought. Rose grit her teeth and stomped muddy footprints up the pristine stairs, annoyed with herself for falling down that line of thinking again. It wasn’t as if she had exactly known the world was going to end just from playing a game with her friends. It wasn’t like she knew her mother was going to be murdered. It wasn’t like she knew she’d wind up on a meteor traversing the fucking universe for three long years, where the darkness seemed to ebb into her thoughts more and more as the days went by unless she had a glass of good cheer on hand.

A glass of cheer. She knew precisely where her mother’s bar was, knew exactly what she wanted to drink, could already taste it on her lips.

“Later,” she muttered aloud, drying feet scuffing along the carpeting till she reached her own room.

A spectacular mess, yet she knew precisely where everything was. This snapshot seemed to be from just a few days before the game began. As if in a daze, Rose walked towards her bed and knelt down, picking up the messy work of a knit scarf she’d completed. Striped, comfortable and warm despite the fact it jagged this way and that occasionally from missed and added stitches. It did the job. She held it to her face and inhaled, took in the scent of her room, her belongings, her old life. It brought a sense of comfort she hadn’t felt in ages, hard enough of a knock to her system that she wavered and had to kneel down on the edge of the mattress for a moment.

A flood of thoughts, memories, her own voice, her mother’s voice, Jaspers, childhood, reality, dream, fiction, reality. Then just as fast the game, fire and heat, bloodshed, the limitless knowing and unknowing of the vast beings beyond the shroud that she wasn’t entirely sure were gone from her mind even now. Rose swore she could feel their impulses sometimes, just a step back from her own abilities as a Seer, which begged the question: how much was her and how much was their lingering incomprehensible words hanging in the air of reality?

Books. Books were a good thing to think about instead. Gritting her teeth, Rose dropped the scarf and staggered towards her bookshelf instead, side stepping other items that littered her floor to avoid damaging them as if they were the real thing. Even in a memory, some things were just too precious.

Ah yes. Books of poetry, books of the grim, books of the bright. Her old copy of  _ ‘The Grimoire for Summoning the Zoologically Dubious’ _ , tucked neatly into its shelf near her signed copy of ‘ _ This Ocean Charles _ ’. Considering she’d already dealt with the horrorterrors on a first name basis, the former didn’t hold much interest for her anymore. She flipped through the book to some of the passages she recalled and smiled, tracing her fingers over the words.

How many times had she thought she’d someday write a book of poetry? Or a book in general? Nowadays she could write and write all she wanted, but the only people who’d see it were her friends and girlfriend.

No. Matesprit. That was the word. Come on, Rose, stop being culturally exclusive, you’re better than this. 

...Maybe she could use a drink more than she thought she did. Rubbing her face, the edges of a headache coming on from how much the nostalgia was coming for her kidneys, she dropped the book onto her bed and trailed back to the hallway. Like a sleepwalker she made her way to her mother’s bar, the well stocked cabinets overflowing with liquid gold as far as she was concerned.

The fact her mother was there, standing with a martini glass and a confused look on her face, was not something she had bargained for.

“...Rosie?”

Rose felt her stomach drop, then just as quickly heave itself upwards, threatening to come out of her mouth in a rush of nausea. Her knees locked, and the feelings of panic welled up in her chest. 

She was dead. She was dead, this was a ghost. This was just a ghost. She’s dead and gone, Rose, get a grip. She’s-

...She’s dead.

She’s dead and not coming back.

Somehow, the thought steeled her and made the next steps feel logical. She was dead. There was no authority over her any longer. The bond was severed, but even then, she felt the bleeding end of the cord that once connected them dragging behind her like a festering dead weight. Her love and worry for her mother, no matter how strong, was tainted by long standing issues that had weighed on her thoughts.

“Rose, what is it? Do you need something? Why are you dressed like that?” she asked, voice a familiar slur. Instead of answering, Rose stepped forward a few paces and slapped the glass out of her mother’s hand. It fell to the ground and shattered on impact, soaking the floor with the clear, strong smelling liquid like poison.

“Do I need something?” she asked. “Do I  _ need  _ something?”

Startled, her mother yanked her hand back and rubbed it, frowning.

“Rosie, what’s wrong? This isn’t like you. I thought you were in the kitchen an-”

Rose couldn’t stop. The switch had been flipped with that one movement, and with it came all the thoughts that had been plaguing her on the meteor, all the thoughts that had been plaguing her since childhood. She clenched her fist so hard she swore she felt blood beneath her nails.

“Mother, be quiet. Just for a minute. I need this,” Rose hissed, surprised by how venomous her thoughts felt. She finally had the chance to air all of her grievances. To get everything out, to have that talk she always swore she’d have with her mother someday as an adult and never got the chance. She could celebrate and hug her afterwards, after the hopeful catharsis that lit her veins. And yet now that she had her attention, now that she had her right where she wanted her… she couldn’t speak. It was like a hand squeezed around her throat, tampering the words down just like always. The nauseated feeling was back. No, this was wrong. This was bad. She shouldn’t feel angry towards her mother like this, she should be happy. This is a mistake. Maybe she should leave, go wake up an-

“...Rose?” she asked softly again, obviously worried.

“Don’t look at me like that,” begged Rose, lifting her hands to her face, covering her eyes, trying to clear her thoughts. “Don’t look at me with pity, I get enough of that from Dave and Kanaya.”

“From who?”

“Ugh, nevermind. I just-” she started, then glanced towards the bottles. Without reading the label, she grabbed the nearest pink liquid and unscrewed the cap, taking a healthy swig of it. Watermelon and alcohol assailed her senses, burning a line straight down her throat to her stomach with its bubbles. It was different from what she had on the meteor, the heavy wine that hit like a brick. This would get the job done.

“Rose LaLonde, what do you think you’re doing!”

“Having a drink, mother, can’t you see?” she asked, taking another swig. Black lipstick marked the rim of the bottle, and she dabbed her lips delicately with the back of her hand before coughing for a second. Oof. What a burn. Delightful. She could already feel the warmth working its way back up her spine, or whatever spine she had considering she hadn’t been able to get the words out that she wanted earlier when on center stage.

Mrs. LaLonde made a grab for the bottle, only for her daughter to dodge quickly, speeding to the other side of the room with it. “What’s wrong, mother? Not happy that I’m drinking?”

“Of course I’m not! Gimme that!” she cried, making another attempt at swiping the bottle from her daughter’s hand. Rose was taking another swig when she grabbed it, but simply swallowed, turned, grabbed another bottle, and cracked it open as well.

“Don’t you  _ dare!” _

“Or what? You have no power over me!” Rose said defiantly, edging the bottle closer to her lips.

“Rose I am your mother and I-”

“Am dead,” Rose said, taking a drink before choking for a moment. This was like paint thinner despite the lovely coloration of the bottle. “Ugh, how could you drink this stuff when you were alive? Nasty. Where’s something sweet,” she muttered half to herself, looking to the shelves. She didn’t notice the pink eyes disappearing to the dead white eyes of a ghost, but knew it was happening already. Knew it was inevitable. Maybe this was what she needed: some liquid courage to get her mouth working. Same as usual.

“I don’t  _ care _ , do you think I want this for you?!”

Rose paused with another bottle in hand and glanced towards her mother’s face, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

“I said, do you think I want this for you! Do you think I want you drinking? Fuck no I don’t!”

“Funny, considering it’s all you ever fucking did,” Rose countered. She clenched the bottle in her fist but didn’t take a drink, instead letting it hang at her side like a morningstar from a loose wrist. It was a showdown, then. Rose realized she was nearly as tall as her mother now, seeing her eye to eye, nose to nose. She recognized more of her own features now that she’d not noticed in her pre-teen face, could tell what pieces of her came from her mother and what had come from Dave’s brother. Father. Whatever. There were more important matters now than genetics discussions.

“I did a lot more than drink and you know it,” Rose’s mother countered, offended. “I raised you from an infant, held down my job, kept everything spic and span, an-”

“All while drinking heavily,” Rose spat right back. “All while entirely sauced! Trashed! Did you think it wasn’t obvious?”

“So what if I had a drink or two?” she asked, frowning. “I still did everything that needed doing.”

Rose stared at her, stared deep into the white voids of her eyes before she clenched her jaw again and bared her teeth like a wild animal. Wielding the bottle like a weapon, she turned and smashed a line of liquor off one of the shelves, broken glass and rainbows of broken promises hitting the floor with a shattering sound that cut the air like a jagged cry. Maybe it was a cry. Her mother’s mouth was open, in shock apparently, but she wasn’t approaching any more. Bottle in hand broken, Rose dropped it, picked up another one, and took another long drink. There was no going back now.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, seeing me like this?” Rose asked, exaggerating her drinking stance for effect. She made an odd picture, mud dried on her blue pointe shoes, half dry hood and hair beginning to frizz from humidity and the leaving of the water droplets from her walk inside. God tier pajamas were both mystical and terribly silly to look at, she knew. At least they were comfortable. “Do I make you sad?”

Her mother continued frowning quietly, apparently looking for her words, before speaking up. “Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it? You’re my baby girl,” she mumbled. “I. ...I want better for you than this.”

“Better for me than what? Drinking in my pajamas? Drinking before noon? Getting wasted in front of my family?” Rose asked, turning to repeat her bottle smashing trick with another shelf. Her shoes were getting wet again, she could feel liquor running between her toes as she minded the broken glass and took a step, picking up another random bottle. It didn’t matter what she drank anymore. It was making her mother uncomfortable, and in a sick sense it made her feel better. This gave her the upper hand, it-

...It was the game they always played, just on a grander scale. Rose felt disgust, at herself, at her mother, at the circumstances, and stared out the window for a moment. Lightning and thunder continued to crack and roar outside, rain pelting the glass like hundreds of tiny fists begging for entry. She squeezed her eyes shut and drank heavily again, head tipped back. When she rubbed her mouth with her hand, lipstick smudged on her face and the side of her pale palm like a shadowy road rash. That should do it. She could talk now, the lump in her throat be damned.

“If you wanted so badly for me to not wind up drinking like you, then why were you always doing it in front of me? Why was it so constant?” Rose asked. “ **_Why was I not enough to make you stop?_ ** ”

“...Rosie..”

“No, don’t Rosie me, not now mother. Not right now. Why was I not enough to make you stop drinking? Was it something I did? Was I not good enough of a reason to put the bottles down?” she asked, advancing in increasingly wobbly steps like a drunken lioness. Her mother took a few steps back, heels clicking on the tile floor as she stepped behind the bar itself to put space between the two of them. As if she were a threat.

She’s dead.

She’s dead and she’s not coming back, Rose.

“Do you have  _ any  _ idea how much I’ve missed you?” she asked, eyes burning. Her makeup ran, watery lines of tears trailing the black liner of her eyes over her cheeks like a toddler’s finger paint trails. “Every day. Every  _ fucking  _ day, I miss you. I love you! I love you so much!”

Her mother lifted a hand, reaching out reflexively as her child cried, but didn’t advance. Uncertain what she wanted, what she needed right then. They didn’t have advice for this in the child rearing books she’d read, and they never really dealt in this kind of open display of emotion usually. Typically it was an indirect, almost cool kind of affection. At least.. That’s what she thought it had been. Rose didn’t seem to want more than that, when pressed. Yet now she stood in front of her, smelling of booze and sobbing, yelling aloud, shaking like a leaf.

“I love you! And I fucking  _ hate  _ you!” she finally cried, the clench in her voice box finally breaking its hold. “I hate you! I hate you so much! You put me through years of bullshit, years of watching you meander through life with a bottle, years of watching you… watching you do your own fucking thing while I was on the sidelines,” Rose hiccupped, snorting messily to clear her airway. This was far from an attractive cry, but what did she care? This was important, and it was finally happening. 

Finally.

“Do you have any idea what you put me through?! All the years of your shit? Do you have any care what I felt? Were you even fucking aware, or did you care as much about that as you cared about everything else that wasn’t forty proof?” Rose said, rubbing her nose and sniffling again. “Just. Just say it at least.”

“...What do you want me to say, Rosie?” asked her mother, sounding lost. Worried. “Do you want me to say sorry? Because I am. I’m so sor-”

“I don’t want your sorry, your sorry doesn’t mean anything. It never did. Sorry just meant you felt bad and wanted to not feel bad anymore, it never meant you wouldn’t do it again,” Rose yelled, voice hoarse. She wanted violence, she wanted destruction, she wanted to rain fire down on her home again and never set foot into it ever again.

She wanted a hug.

She wanted to be held.

She wanted her mother to hold her head on her lap, pet her hair, and tell her everything was a bad dream and that she was sorry, that she was quitting drinking, that they were going to do something together. That there would be time for just them again.

That it was safe to feel this chaos, this sense of being unhinged, and that it would all be okay again on the other side.

What she got instead was a scared looking ghost crying silvery tears from behind a bar, the smell of mixed alcohols wafting in the air, and her sinuses clogging up. 

“I want.. I want you to say you didn’t love me enough,” Rose said. “I want you to say it.”

“Rose I can’t say that,” her mother said softly. “I loved you more than the world-”

“But not enough to get sober.”

She flinched, and Rose finally could take a breath again, red faced and hiccupping for breath.

“...I still can’t say that, because it’s not true.”

“ _ You’re not a good judge of what’s true or not, mother.  _ I didn’t want Super Mom, I didn’t want a saint, I just wanted you without a fucking bottle or glass or flask on hand. Was that so much to ask for?” Rose asked, croaking.

Her mother looked uncomfortable again before she came around the edge of the bar. In a few strides she’d grabbed her daughter around the shoulders and hugged her tight. She hung on even when she balked and started to squirm. She hung on when Rose’s clenched fists hammered at her sides. She hung on even as her shoulder got wet with tears and saliva and snot.

She hung on even as Rose slowly went limp and started to wail against her shoulder, screaming and crying and blubbering messily about loving her, hating her, wishing she was alive, wishing she was dead. Wishing she was free from her memory and legacy. Wishing none of this had ever happened to them.

Slowly, she began to pet at her hair, sinking down to her knees with her daughter and letting her lay against her lap. Rose tucked her legs up and rested her head down, eyes glassy and distant as she let familiar fingers card through her hair. How many years had it been since her mother did this? Since she allowed her mother to do this? When did it stop feeling so comforting, one upon a time?

“Rose… I have… I had a problem,” she finally said softly. “It wasn’t fair to you. But I had an addiction. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault. And you were always the most important thing in my life. Rose, you always astounded me. You were such a precocious kid, I was always so proud.”

“But,” Rose croaked tiredly, looking at the wall, at the floor, at the broken bottles and small lake of alcohol on the printed tiles.

“But I had an addiction,” she said again. “I thought… I thought it was enough, that I was able to do everything while still drinking. I couldn’t give it up, but I was still balancing everything. Or I thought I was.”

“You weren’t. You weren’t at all.”

“I see that now,” said her mother softly. “Rosie- No… Rose. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything you must’ve gone through, to make you feel this way. I’m sorry I ever made you doubt my loving you. I’m sorry that I can’t say it’ll never happen again, now.”

“...If things were different, would there have been a chance?” Rose asked. “If I’d said this… you know. Before. Would there have been a chance you’d have stopped?”

Her mother bit her lip, silvery tears flowing again, and smiled sadly.

“I don’t know, honey. Maybe. But I don’t want you hanging from a maybe like a lifeline,” she said, continuing to stroke Rose’s hair. “I can’t do that to you. All I can say is I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart I’m sorry.”

“...I’m sorry too. I was a shit daughter sometimes, an-”

“You were a child, honey. You were a normal child. You weren’t a shit daughter.” Carefully, she placed Rose’s headband back into place and smoothed her bangs away from her forehead. “I promise. As a shit mother, I think I’m an authority on that.”

Rose couldn’t help the faint laugh that found its way out of her throat, how hollow it felt. She slowly pushed herself upright into a sitting position and rubbed her face again, this time with her sleeve before her mother stopped her and rubbed with her own sleeve, makeup marring the white surface in no time. 

“...I can’t stay,” Rose said. “I need to be going back soon. I hadn’t planned on being gone long from the others.”

“I understand,” said her mother, rubbing her own face finally, smiling with her blank eyes. “Are you able to come back to this place?”

“I’m not sure,” Rose admitted. “We’re still a little confused on how these things work, the extent of them. I might even see another version of you in another bubble. But I don’t know if I can come back to this one.”

There was silence between them before Rose’s mother hugged her tight once more, squeezing her hard enough that Rose swore she felt her ribs creak beneath those strong, perfectly manicured fingers.

“I love you, Rosie. Forever and a day. I’m glad I got to see you. ...I hope I helped.”

“You did,” she promised. “This might just be the alcohol talking, but you did.”

“Think it over when you’re sober,” her mother advised. “If you’re still angry, find another me and talk it out as many times as you need. God knows that binch needs yelled at,” she said with a wry smile.

Another laugh came from Rose as she patted her mother on the back.

“You’ve got it. Sober reflection it will be. ..I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too Rose.”


End file.
